Especially with something that’s true; Sam never can sit still for a movie. Something only a few people know. Sam is great at hiding what she perceives as flaws. A short attention span isn’t a flaw in my book, but it certainly is in Sam’s. Tension snakes down my neck and over my shoulders. I don’t like these texts. They aren’t funny, and there’s something off about them.
Enough already. I’m baking. Come up with a better joke.
There’s no response, and I assume that’s the end of that. I grab some flour and begin to measure it out when Sam replies.
Delilah cooks and bakes. Not you.
I don’t want to believe anything other than this is Sam trying to annoy me. She’s an excellent liar—a professional where I am but an amateur. But there’s something about the text, the tone that conveys genuine trepidation, and it has my hackles rising.
My hands are not as steady when I type my response.
That’s because I AM Delilah. (The “der” is implied here.)
There’s another protracted pause. One that I feel in my bones. My stomach clenches as I wait. It doesn’t feel like a prank anymore. But it has to be. Sam is just that evil.
A ding from my phone fills the silent kitchen.
Tater Tot?
I suck in a sharp, pained breath, my fingers tingling. All the oxygen in the room disappears. For a long moment, all I can do is stand in my kitchen, my ears ringing, my body clenched.
Other than Sam, only one person knows Sixteen Candles is my favorite teen film. The only person who would boldly call me that name.
No, I will not think about Macon Saint. Lord knows I’ve tried my best to eradicate him from my brain entirely. But he is like a cold sore, popping up now and then, a painful irritation whether I want him there or not.
It grew worse when he won a starring role on Dark Castle, the series everyone on the planet but me seems to be obsessed with. I didn’t know he was into acting until then. And damn it, I wanted to watch that show. Now, it is all I can do to keep clear of it, what with every person I know talking about it on social media each Sunday night.
Sam was beside herself about the news. “Just think, we both know someone famous, Dee.”
“Hold my hand while I try not to faint from excitement.”
“Sarcasm makes your face pinch in unattractive ways.”
“How about when I stick my tongue out? Don’t give me that look. I’m a caterer in LA, Sam. I’ve met loads of famous people. Most of them haven’t been very impressive.”
“But you don’t know them know them. We knew Saint before he was famous. People are more likely to show you their true selves when they’re not worried about fame.”
“Yeah, well, Macon’s true self is an arrogant asshat.”
“Pish. You hold grudges for too long.”
“Too long? He was a monumental dickhead to me for years!”
“Water under the bridge. You should let it go too.”
Too. As if she’d been called Tater Tot by a mob of sycophantic Macon worshipers. As if she’d had those little potato bits pelted at her when she was the most vulnerable. To this day, I can’t stand tater tots.
“They show his ass in two episodes,” she went on blithely. “And I’m here to tell you, it is hot. I mean, we’re talking grade A bubble-butt perfection. He’s definitely built that thing up since high school.”
Not wanting to talk about Macon’s butt or the fact that my sister may or may not have seen said butt long ago, I had changed the subject. She knows how much I hate Macon. The fact that she’s using him as a practical joke now is too much. Anger flows through me in a rush of heat. I’m all thumbs as I reply.
How dare you bring that ass canal into this?
Ass canal? Only one person I know uses that term. Jesus, this really is Delilah, isn’t it?
I want to scream. I want to chuck the phone to the devil and run out of the kitchen. But mainly, I want to punch my sister.
Fuck you, Sam. Consider yourself uninvited to brunch.
It’s Macon. And you really hate me that much, Tot? After all this time?
No, no, no. It is not Macon Saint texting. Sam hasn’t talked to him since he dumped her the night of the prom. It’s a matter of pride with her. Never mind the fact that he’s famous; he probably has people